Run, Trevor Story. Run to the light. For your own sake, brother, get out while you can.
It’s a hot mess here. It’s going to get hotter, and messier, before it gets better. The buzz on the street is that COVID turned McGregor Square into the mother of all money pits. The longer the pandemic keeps LoDo a ghost town, the more the Rockies start to feel the squeeze.
No cash, no cavalry.
Even if Coors Field gets semi-opened for business as semi-usual, many locals plan on staying away, regardless. After The Great Nolan Arenado Heist was made official Monday night, could you blame them?
“Nolan’s one of my best friends, baseball aside, so this hurts,” Story, the Rockies’ All-Star shortstop, told The Post’s Patrick Saunders late Monday, adding that he was “sad and a little frustrated, to be honest.”
In a clubhouse of straight shooters, Story’s Doc Holliday. Good guy. Team guy. Class guy. Patient guy. Not a complainer. When he uses words such as “sad” and “frustrated” and “hurts,” it’s from the heart.
Sounds like they just broke his, too.
Run, Trevor. Run to glory. The Dodgers aren’t going anywhere. The Padres have joined the fight in the National League West, cashing in trade chips with buckets more to spare. Everybody else in the division is playing for third for at least the next two seasons. Maybe five seasons. Maybe longer.
There was an argument — more of a hope, really — that the Rockies might eventually unload Arenado with the idea of throwing a face-of-the-franchise contract, a long-term deal, at Story, whose contract expires after this season. Maybe not the eight years at $260 million they gave Arenado, but something within shouting distance.
The pandemic, and what it’s done to Coors Field and the neighboring hotels/restaurants/entertainment, probably makes that shout a lot more distant now. And if you’re the 28-year old Story, why would you want to make that kind of commitment to a front office that’s already blown one of the best postseason windows it’s ever had?
Run, Trevor. The only ring you’ll see on Blake Street is Dante’s fourth circle of Hell. The one reserved for the miserly or avaricious. The one in which the spendthrifts and hoarders chuck weights at one another for eternity, as described in Canto VII of “Inferno”:
They strained their chests
against enormous weights, and with mad howls
rolled them at one another. Then in haste
they rolled them back, one party shouting out:
“Why do you hoard?” and the other: “Why do you waste?”
Run, Trevor. Run far. Run fast. They’re breaking up the band. Four years ago, the Rockies had a Beatles infield of rock stars: Arenado at third, Story at short, D.J. LeMahieu at second, and a cast of rotating drummers at first base.
Rockies GM Jeff Bridich let George Harrison walk away to the Yankees. He just traded John Lennon to St. Louis.
As of Monday night, the infield was down to Paul McCartney, alone, Denver’s Nowhere Man.
Run, Trevor. You’re too good for this. Too good a person. Too good a player. Too good to be the Jerami Grant of the National League West, the star attraction charged with carrying Bridich’s mistakes.
No man’s back deserves that much weight.
“All I can do,” Story continued, “is focus on playing the best baseball I can for my teammates and the fans, they deserve it.”
Trade this man. To a winning franchise. To someone who gets it. To the glory. To the light. He deserves it.
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